


Mama, I'm Sorry

by borginburks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Hurt Tony, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Maria Stark Was A Good Mom, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), civil war fucked me up, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7023811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borginburks/pseuds/borginburks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later on he watches the video again, over and over. He sits on the floor, bottle in hand, and closes his eyes. A thousand memories slip into his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mama, I'm Sorry

Later on he watches the video again, over and over. He sits on the floor, bottle in hand, and closes his eyes. A thousand memories slip into his mind. 

-

He is three years old, walking down the stairs of the manor. It is night; the house grows even bigger in the moonlight, walls expand outwards, leaving only empty space in between. The emptiness of it is chaotic. 

Heavy drops of rain tap against the windows, light flashes and then there is the thunder, sharp as a whip, cracking and sizzling. He walks faster, little feet pitter-patter on the cold marble floor. The shadows creep closer, he runs into the room.

He stops. His mama is lying down; dark, curly hair has slipped out of the neat chignon it was tucked into. She looks at him, eyes red and lips cracked, and puts the bottle in her hand on the bedside table. 

She lifts the covers, he slips in and she tucks him against her, his eyes flutter as fatigue sets in, he feels a gentle kiss on his forehead, he is safe. He sleeps. 

\- 

He is four years old. He is bored; Jarvis gives him a screwdriver and some scrap metal. It feels familiar to his still soft hands and so he does what he is best at - he creates.

Mama doesn’t come out of her room much these days; she stares at the wall and drinks glass after glass of amber liquid, but she smiles when she sees him and opens up her arms.

He sits on her lap and presents the rough circuit board to her; she picks it, hand slightly trembling. He looks into her eyes, warm honey, and sees pride shining through.

He hugs her, inhaling the bitter scent of perfume and alcohol that has become unique to her. “Mio caro ragazzo,” she says, pushing his hair to the side, “you will do great things.”

-

He is five. His fingers clumsily press down on ivory and ebony. The notes are harsh to his ears. Frustrated tears gather at the corners of his eyes. 

His mama wipes them away, she places her hands over his, “like this, Antonio,” she spreads his arms. Their hands glide across the piano, coaxing melody out of the instrument.  
She hums to herself softly, then begins to sing, voice clear and dewy, a hint of an accent making itself known.

“Deep in December, it's nice to remember, although you know the snow will follow. Deep in December, it's nice to remember, without a hurt the heart is hollow.”

\- 

He watches as her eyes widen in shock, as a metal hand closes around her throat, cutting of her cries. He watches at the light goes out of her eyes, as her body becomes limp and lifeless. “I’m sorry, Mama” he says, but she is not there to kiss his cheek or wrap her arms around him. 

He pours himself another drink.


End file.
